The Heavenly Sword & the Dragon Sabre Chapter 6 Part 4

Before Zhang Cuishan could reach the tiller, another enormous wave reared up and crashed down upon them—a solid wall of water that struck the ship with a tremendous boom, sending shattered timbers flying in all directions. In that instant, the years of tireless cultivation that Zhang Cuishan had devoted to his art proved their worth. His feet clamped to the deck as though nailed there with iron spikes, and he did not budge. The moment the wave subsided, he sprang to the tiller in a single bound and seized the handle with a steady grip.

Then came a series of splintering cracks—Xie Xun had swung his wolf-fang mace and snapped the mainmast and the foremast clean through. Both masts toppled into the sea, trailing their white sails behind them. Yet the wind was simply too fierce. Even with only the mizzenmast’s sail catching the gale, the ship heeled and lurched, bucking across the waves like a maddened horse. Xie Xun struggled with all his might to take in the mizzen sail, but for all his prodigious martial skill, against the raw fury of wind and wave he was helpless. The mizzenmast leaned further and further until the edge of its sail touched the water. Xie Xun cursed aloud: “Heaven, you thieving wretch—damn this foul wind!” Seeing the ship on the verge of capsizing, he had no choice but to raise his mace and smash the mizzenmast as well.

With all three masts gone, the ship was a rudderless ghost adrift upon the monstrous sea, at the mercy of wind and current.

Zhang Cuishan cried out, “Miss Yin! Where are you?” He called again and again, but no answer came. As he called, his voice began to crack with the sound of weeping. Then a hand grasped his knee, and in the next instant a great wave crashed over his head. Beneath the churning water, someone wrapped their arms tightly about his waist. When the wave rolled past the deck, the figure in his arms reached up and clasped her hands behind his neck. A soft voice said, “Fifth Brother Zhang, do you truly worry over me so?”

It was Yin Susu.

Joy flooded through him. His right hand held fast to the tiller while his left arm pulled her close, and he said, “Thank heaven and earth!”

Here, on the knife’s edge between life and death, where any moment could be their last beneath the waves, he realised with sudden, startling clarity that his concern for Yin Susu exceeded even his fear for his own life.

Yin Susu said, “Fifth Brother, let us die together.”

Zhang Cuishan said, “Yes. Susu—in life and death, we stay together.”

Under ordinary circumstances, the two of them trod utterly different paths—one of the orthodox schools, one of the heterodox cults—and the weight of such considerations, compounded by a hundred misgivings, would never have allowed their hearts to join so swiftly. But now they clung to one another in the howling dark, the hull groaning and cracking beneath them, the ship liable to break apart at any moment—and in their hearts was a sweetness and a joy beyond all telling. The contest of palm strength against Xie Xun had left Zhang Cuishan utterly spent, yet the sudden tide of Yin Susu’s tenderness revived him in an instant. No matter how the mountainous waves battered them from left and right, he held the tiller steady as a rock, never once letting it waver.

Every last one of the deaf-mute sailors had been swept into the sea. The storm had come upon them without warning—born, in truth, of a sudden earthquake beneath the ocean floor, which had spawned a great tsunami and set the currents churning until the sky itself erupted in tempest. Had Xie Xun and Zhang Cuishan not both possessed extraordinary martial arts, they could never have endured it. By good fortune, the ship had been built with uncommon sturdiness. Though the hatches, the decking, and the upper works were smashed beyond repair, the hull itself held.

Black clouds smothered the sky. Rain hammered down in sheets. Waves rose on every side like walls of stone. In such chaos, who could tell east from west, north from south? And even had they known the way, with every mast in splinters, the ship could no longer be sailed.

Xie Xun made his way to the stern. “Brother Zhang, you have done magnificently. Let me take the tiller. The two of you, go below and rest.”

Zhang Cuishan rose and handed over the tiller. He took Yin Susu’s hand and was about to step away when, without the slightest warning, a monstrous wave hurled them both clear over the gunwale. It struck so suddenly that neither had any chance to brace. By the time Zhang Cuishan came to his senses, his body was already in mid-air, with nothing beneath his feet but the fathomless abyss of the roiling sea. In the midst of his panic, his left hand shot out and seized Yin Susu’s wrist. In that moment, a single thought burned through him: Die with her in the depths of the ocean. Never let go. His left hand had barely closed around her wrist when a rope lashed tight about his right arm. His body was wrenched backward, crashing through spray and surging water, dragged back aboard. Xie Xun had spotted the danger in time, snatched up a halyard from the deck, and lassoed them both back to safety. They slammed onto the planking with a double thud. For Zhang Cuishan and Yin Susu, this escape from the jaws of death was beyond anything they could have hoped for. Even Xie Xun breathed a silent thanks to his good fortune—had that rope not happened to lie at his feet, ten times his skill could not have saved them.

Zhang Cuishan helped Yin Susu into the cabin. The ship still pitched wildly, one moment climbing a mountain of water, the next plunging into a chasm, but after what they had just survived, neither gave it a second thought. Yin Susu nestled against Zhang Cuishan’s chest and murmured in his ear, “Fifth Brother, if we live through this, I want to be by your side forever.”

Zhang Cuishan’s heart surged. “I was about to say the very same thing. In heaven above or on earth below, in the world of the living or the depths of the sea—we stay together.”

Yin Susu repeated the words, her voice trembling with joy: “In heaven above or on earth below, in the world of the living or the depths of the sea—we stay together.” The two of them leaned against one another, and in their hearts they were grateful for the storm.

Xie Xun, meanwhile, did nothing but silently curse his fate. No matter how formidable his martial arts, against the fury of wind and wave he was utterly powerless. There was nothing for it but to resign himself to heaven’s will and let the tempest do as it pleased.

The great tsunami raged for more than two watches¹ before it began, at last, to subside. Slowly, the black clouds parted, and the light of moon and stars shone through.

Zhang Cuishan walked to the stern. “Senior Xie, I owe you our lives.”

Xie Xun said coldly, “Do not speak too soon. Nine chances in ten, all three of our lives are still in that thieving heaven’s hands.”

In all his life, Zhang Cuishan had never heard anyone prefix the word “heaven” with “thieving.”² He reflected that this man’s bitterness toward the world had reached the point of utter recklessness. Yet upon further thought, here they drifted in a lone vessel upon a boundless sea, with little prospect of survival. He had just pledged his heart to Yin Susu, and his attachment to the living world was keener than ever—as though he had barely tasted a single drop of fine wine from a jade cup before it was snatched away. The phrase “fate toys with mortals” now struck him with a depth of meaning he had never felt before, driven home by Xie Xun’s three bitter syllables.

He sighed and took the tiller from Xie Xun’s hands. Xie Xun, exhausted after most of the night, retired to the cabin to rest. Yin Susu sat beside Zhang Cuishan. She tilted her head to gaze at the stars above, traced the line of the Great Bear’s ladle, and found the Pole Star. The ship was drifting due north with the current. “Fifth Brother,” she said, “the ship is moving steadily northward.”

Zhang Cuishan said, “So it is. If only we could turn west—then we might hope to find our way home.” He threw his weight against the tiller, straining to bring the bow around to the west, but without a scrap of canvas the ship would not answer. It simply followed wind and current, drifting ever northward.

After a time lost in thought, Yin Susu said, “What if this ship drifted endlessly to the east? Where would we end up?”

Zhang Cuishan said, “To the east there is nothing but the open ocean, stretching on without end. If we drifted for seven or eight days without fresh water to drink…”

Yin Susu, intoxicated with the first flush of love, dreamlike and giddy, had no wish to dwell on such dispiriting matters. “I have heard it told,” she said, “that far out in the Eastern Sea lie the mountains of the immortals, where ageless beings dwell. Perhaps our ship will carry us to one of those enchanted isles, and we shall meet beautiful immortals, men and women both…” She raised her eyes to the Silver River³ that arched across the heavens. “Or perhaps this ship will drift on and on until it reaches the Silver River itself. Then we shall see the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid meeting upon the Bridge of Magpies.”⁴

Zhang Cuishan laughed. “We shall give this ship to the Cowherd as a gift. Then whenever he wishes to see the Weaving Maid, he can simply sail across the river instead of waiting for the seventh day of the seventh month.”

Yin Susu said, “If we give the ship to the Cowherd, what shall we ride when you and I wish to meet?”

Zhang Cuishan smiled softly. “In heaven above or on earth below, in the world of the living or the depths of the sea—we stay together. Since we are always together, what need have we to cross any Silver River? No ship required.”

Yin Susu’s face blossomed into a radiant smile, like a flower unfurling, and she took Zhang Cuishan’s hand and stroked it gently.

The two of them brimmed with tenderness, their hearts so full that there seemed a thousand things to say and yet no need to say a single one. A long, long time passed before Zhang Cuishan lowered his gaze and saw the glimmer of tears in Yin Susu’s eyes, her face touched with sorrow. “What are you thinking of?” he asked, surprised.

Yin Susu said softly, “In the world of the living, in the depths of the sea, perhaps I can be with you. But one day, when the two of us die, you will ascend to heaven… and I… I shall be cast down to hell.”

Zhang Cuishan said, “Nonsense.”

Yin Susu sighed. “I know it well enough. In this life of mine, I have done too many wicked things. I have killed more people than I can count, and for no good reason.”

Zhang Cuishan started. The dim awareness that her heart was cruel and her hands merciless—that she might not, after all, be his true match—flickered through him. Yet his feelings had already run too deep, and here, adrift in this vast ocean where death might claim them at any moment, how could he trouble himself with what the future might hold? He comforted her: “From now on, mend your ways and do good. As the old saying goes: to know one’s faults and correct them—there is no greater virtue.”

Yin Susu fell silent. After a while, she began to sing, softly and low. It was a shanpuyang⁵—a song set to an old tune:

He and I, I and he—how we fret over one another. If only, my darling, we could be wed, I would gladly die at the gates of King Yama’s⁶ court. Let them pound me with their pestles, saw me asunder, grind me between their stones, toss me into the cauldron of boiling oil. Ah, let them! The living suffer, but who ever saw a ghost clapped in chains? Ah, let them! When the fire singes your brows, worry about what’s before your eyes. When the fire singes your brows, worry about what’s before your eyes.

From inside the cabin, Xie Xun bellowed his approval: “A fine song! A fine song! Miss Yin, you suit my temperament far better than that fusspot Master Zhang of yours.”

Yin Susu said, “You and I are both wicked people. Neither of us will come to a good end.”

Zhang Cuishan whispered, “If your end is ill, I shall share it. If you must truly go down to hell, I will go with you. Let them toss us both into the cauldron of boiling oil!”

Yin Susu was overcome with mingled joy and wonder. She managed only a single cry—“Fifth Brother!”—before she flung her arms around his neck.

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At the first light of dawn, Xie Xun struck a great fish alongside the hull with his wolf-fang mace—a beast of ten catties⁷ or more. The mace, with its hooked barbs, proved a surprisingly handy instrument for the purpose. The three of them had not eaten in a day, and though the raw fish reeked, they devoured it with relish. There was no fresh water aboard, but by squeezing the juice from the flesh, they could just manage to slake their thirst.

The current bore them steadily northward, day and night without cease. Each evening the Pole Star glittered before the bow. Each morning the sun rose over the starboard rail; each evening it sank beyond the port. For more than ten days the wind and current held, and the ship’s course never wavered. Xie Xun and Zhang Cuishan strained at the tiller with all their strength, but they could not alter the ship’s heading by so much as a hair.

The weather grew colder by the day. Xie Xun and Zhang Cuishan, whose internal cultivation ran deep, could endure it well enough. Yin Susu, however, grew more haggard with each passing day. Both men had already given her their outer garments, yet still it was not enough. Zhang Cuishan watched her force a brave smile and fight the biting wind, and the ache in his heart was beyond expression. If the ship continued northward even a few more days, she would freeze to death.

But heaven leaves no path utterly sealed. One day the ship drifted into the midst of a vast colony of seals.⁸ Xie Xun bludgeoned several to death with his wolf-fang mace, and the three of them stripped the pelts and wrapped themselves in them—as fine as the choicest fur cloaks. There was seal meat to eat besides, and all three were greatly heartened.

Footnotes

1. 时辰 – shíchén. A traditional Chinese unit of time equivalent to two modern hours. Two watches thus equals roughly four to five hours. ↩

2. 贼老天 – zéi lǎotiān. Literally thieving old heaven. An extraordinarily impious oath in traditional Chinese culture, where heaven (天 – tiān) is the supreme moral authority. To call heaven a “thief” is to accuse the cosmos itself of robbery and injustice—an expression of such radical blasphemy that Zhang Cuishan has never encountered it before. It encapsulates Xie Xun’s philosophical stance: a man so grievously wronged that he holds the universe itself in contempt. ↩

3. 银河 – yínhé. Literally silver river. The Chinese name for the Milky Way, imagined as a celestial river separating the two star-crossed lovers of Chinese legend. ↩

4. 牛郎织女 – Niúláng Zhīnǚ. Literally cowherd and weaving maid. One of China’s most beloved legends: two celestial lovers separated by the Silver River and permitted to meet only once a year, on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, when magpies form a bridge across the sky. See Wikipedia. ↩

5. 山坡羊 – Shānpōyáng. Literally sheep on the hillside. A classical Chinese song form (qǔpái) originating from the Yuan Dynasty, used for lyric poetry set to music. Often employed for melancholy or philosophical themes. See Wikipedia. ↩

6. 阎王 – Yánwáng. King Yama, ruler of the underworld (地狱 – dìyù) in Chinese Buddhist mythology, who judges the souls of the dead. See Wikipedia. ↩

7. 斤 – jīn. A traditional Chinese unit of weight, approximately equivalent to one and a third pounds. ↩

8. 海豹 – hǎibào. Literally sea leopard. Seals, marine mammals found in colder northern waters. Their appearance in increasingly frigid seas confirms that the ship has drifted far to the north, likely into sub-Arctic waters. ↩